


We're Going for the Queen

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Boners, British Military, M/M, Military John, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, potential johnlock, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 21:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11929584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: John looks down at his own outfit, the signature red and black of formal military dress. “Am I wear-? Of course I’m wearing this. It’s a Military Benefit hosted by the Queen of England, Sherlock.” He laughs softly as he speaks, a shy smile on his face. “I have to wear my uniform.”





	We're Going for the Queen

_A trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. ~A.C.D._

* * *

 

“Must we go?” Sherlock whines, rolling his head back against the top of his chair.

John fixes him in a steely glare. “We’re leaving in thirty minutes, the plan is set, and you wait until I go offto get dressed to tell me you don’t want to go?”

“That’s not possible,” Sherlock responds, sliding down in his seat so his knees jut out into the center of the room. “I’m quite sure I’ve complained before now.”

“We’re going,” John grumbles.

“But Myc-“

“We’re not going for Mycroft, we’re going for the Queen.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but pushes himself to his feet anyway. “Please,” he scoffs, flitting his hands about in a poor imitation of Mycroft. “We’re going so my big brother can be seen having a friendly connection to the armed forces.” John ignores him and turns back to the hall.

“Get dressed, Sherlock. Wear something nice,” he calls over his shoulder.

Sherlock pulls a mocking face but resigns himself to the inevitable and makes his way into his own room, slamming the door for good measure. He stares into his closet, suddenly wondering what _wear something nice_ means. Considering his daily outfit is a button-up and tailored suit, it seems odd to suggest he mind his apparel. He _always_ wears something nice.

Eyeing a tuxedo, easily the nicest item in his wardrobe, he decides that if he has to attend such a silly function, he may as well look good doing it. And perhaps if he’s lucky, he will be dressed nicer than Mycroft. Whatever he wears, he has no doubt he’ll look better than his brother at least.

When he returns to the hall, he sees he has arrived before John. Smirking, he makes his way to the kitchen, figuring a final cup of tea before the night gets on would be nice. When John’s door finally opens and his shoes tap hesitant steps across the wooden floor, Sherlock calls over his shoulder: “Took you bloody long enough. I could’ve waited another fifteen minutes to start if I knew it’d take you so—“

“What? What’s wrong?” John’s face scrunches worriedly as he comes into Sherlock’s line of vision. “What’d you stop for?”

Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly, straightening to his full height. “You’re wearing that?” he asks guardedly, a concerned expression on his face.

John looks down at his own outfit, the signature red and black of formal military dress. “Am I wear-? Of course I’m wearing this. It’s a Military Benefit hosted by the Queen of England, Sherlock.” He laughs softly as he speaks, a shy smile on his face. “I have to wear my uniform.”

Sherlock coughs again, his throat feeling oddly tight. “I didn’t realize,” he says simply, taking his cup and putting it to his lips to take a drink before realizing it’s still empty.

“Not too hot I hope?” John laughs. Sherlock’s eyebrows crunch together again and he looks up at John with a strange expression. “The tea? It was a joke because you don’t…have any… You know what? Never mind. You ready?” Nodding stiffly, Sherlock tenses his mouth and follows John through the door.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock retrieves his coat from the hook, suddenly wishing he had something nicer. John seems warm enough in what he’s wearing and there’s an air of confidence about his movements as he tugs his jacket straight. His posture, always impeccable, is somehow improved and his face is set sternly, although his eyes shine.

“Oh, John! Look at you,” Mrs. Hudson coos, joining them in the hallway. “And you convinced Sherlock to go with you. Oh, this will be lovely. I’m so glad they’ll let you go together now.”

Sherlock is still too caught up with his discomfort to respond, but John glances away for a moment, confused, before opening his mouth. “Why wouldn’t they let us go together, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, you know,” she grins, winking conspiratorially. “’Don’t ask, don’t tell’ and all that.”

John’s mouth pops open and his eyes narrow as he searches for something to say but Sherlock interrupts, stepping forward and kissing the landlady on the forehead. “Mrs. Hudson, you’ve spent far too much time in the United States.”

She laughs, smacking him gently on the chest. “But don’t you think he looks nice, Sherlock? Look at him! Really look at him.”

John’s eyes flick to Sherlock’s face, a small smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock’s breath seems to leave him slowly, and he can’t tell if time has paused or he has. In either case, he can’t help but agree. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” he murmurs. “John looks wonderful.”

John’s smile blossoms into a smirk and he cocks his head at Sherlock. Their eyes are locked for several moments, searching each other for something to break the contact but finding only more reasons to stay. “You’re absolutely right,” Mrs. Hudson interrupts suddenly. “You’re absolutely not gay. Have a nice night, boys!”

Without waiting for a response, she turns and retreats into her flat, shutting the door behind her without so much as a look back. John’s gaze moves to the floor and he rocks up on his toes before laughing once and gesturing with his head to the door. “Shall we go then?”

“After you,” Sherlock responds, smiling.

Stepping out the front door, Sherlock groans as he sees what’s waiting for them. “He really is trying to get something out of this, then,” John laughs. Waiting at the curb is a black stretch limousine, the Union Jack streaming in miniature from the roof. “Is he inside?”

“No, of course not. He’ll want to make sure he greets us—you—at the event in front of everyone,” Sherlock responds squinting as he looks up the street to see traffic. “Are you really sure we have to-“

“Yup,” John interrupts, drawing out the word and popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously. He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock, who sighs and follows him to the side door. As they approach, the driver climbs out and salutes John, who responds in like, before opening the door for them.

“Refreshments are inside, sirs,” he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Sherlock supposes it’s a sign of respect but he doesn’t particularly like it. The body, the eyes, they say so much about a person. Of course, a military posture might say just as much. He glances at John, who slides in after him, and decides that sometimes it says a whole lot of things.

The trip is not nearly long enough and they arrive before Sherlock can properly formulate an escape plan. He eyes the venue with reluctant appreciation, surprised by the size of it all. “If they used all the money this costs them to fund the programs they’re actually raising money for, couldn’t they spare us all the façade?” John flicks his eyes towards Sherlock’s face, prepared to respond sternly. He’s pleased to see a small smile on his friend’s face and can’t help grinning himself.

“Probably,” he says, starting up the steps ahead of Sherlock. “But then, you wouldn’t get to see me all dressed up.”

Sherlock scoffs and presses himself after John, catching up quickly. He’s surprised by the sheer number of guests present and realizes with growing frustration that the majority are in uniform. Eyeing service members cautiously, he feels a knot in his stomach forming as a sea of red and black overwhelm him. Their entrance into the building is no less exciting.

Glowing chandeliers, tables of fondue, and hundreds of bow-ties, dress uniforms, ball gowns, and an astonishing array of hats greets them as they step onto the marble floor. John’s mouth falls open in disbelief, a smile dancing at his lips. Sherlock’s expression might’ve been similar if he wasn’t so vastly over-stimulated. Instead, his eyebrows come together and his mouth presses into a flat line.

Together, they follow a rolled carpet to a set of soldiers. John passes the man nearest him his attendance card. Pausing to read the card, the man throws a stiff salute, which John returns. “Captain Watson and Mr. Holmes,” the man announces.

“Dear Lord,” Sherlock breathes once they’ve passed. He rolls onto his toes and clenches his fists as though experiencing something uncomfortable.

“You alright, Sherlock?” John asks, pressing a hand to his friend’s arm and stepping closer to whisper privately over the sound cascading through the room.

Sherlock takes a breath, not realizing he’d been holding it, and a dozen scents assault his senses. First and foremost, however, is the scent of John Watson. His cologne is warm and musky and mingles with his natural smells in a way that catches Sherlock’s voice before he can respond. “I- ah… I-“ he sighs, turning his head a bit to avoid breathing so close to John, whose eyes bore devastatingly into Sherlock’s own. “I’ll be back,” he nods curtly.

Looking around sharply, he smiles in silent gratitude when John points towards the back of the room. “The loo’s back there,” John says, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head.  His eyes are fixed on Sherlock for only a moment longer, though, and shift to a server carrying a variety of cocktails when Sherlock steps away. “Mycroft,” he says, a greeting which is enough to propel Sherlock even faster through the growing crowd.

Finally reaching the bathroom, Sherlock leans his hands against the sink and peers into the mirror. “You’ve got to stop this,” he mutters to his reflection before looking down towards the front of his pants. “This is really a bad time.” He tries futilely to smooth the growing bulge, grunting angrily when he can’t seem to do so successfully. “Come on, you were fine until now, what’s with you?” He’s quite sure he’d look crazy should anyone suddenly walk in; the famous Sherlock Holmes, nearly shouting at his own erection in a public restroom.

He takes a breath, eyes catching the large stall at the end of the aisle. “Have it your way then,” he grumbles, stomping towards the door and throwing it open angrily. Locking the door behind him, he takes a settling breath and looks around the stall. While their venue certainly is fancy, it can’t quite make up for the inherent nastiness of having a wank on a public toilet. Before he can entirely settle his mind on simply standing on the corner, the bathroom door is thrown open, startling him nearly enough to solve his problem. Nearly enough.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice calls.

Sherlock pauses, one hand on his zipper. “Not now, brother dear, I’m not feeling too well.”

“Are you alright?” his footsteps and voice move closer to the stall Sherlock is in as the bathroom door swings shut behind him. “You’re not high are you?”

Scoffing, Sherlock rolls his eyes, a gesture he’s sure Mycroft can picture even though he can’t see him do it. “No, Mycroft. I’m simply not feeling well.”

The unmistakable click of an umbrella against the bathroom tile echoes dimly through the room and Sherlock waits for a moment before receiving a response. “You can’t use illness to get out of _every_ social engagement, brother. Please do consider feeling better.” Hesitating for a moment as though hoping he’ll be summoned back, Mycroft sighs and exits the bathroom, Sherlock to himself.

Conversing with his brother very nearly accomplishes what he’d come to the bathroom to accomplish anyway, but Sherlock knows he’ll feel much worse if he returns to the event without going through with his plan. Squaring his shoulders, he fiddles with his zipper and manages to actually get a hand on the problem when he’s interrupted again.

Those soft, hesitant steps. The sound of dry skin on itself as hands clench into fists once and then twice. “Sherlock?” John calls. “Ah, Mycroft said you weren’t feeling well and I just wanted to see if you needed to leave.”

Prepared to be annoyed with the encounter, Sherlock is taken aback. “What do you mean?” he responds, hoping his voice sounds as clear as John’s.

John steps towards the bathroom stall, muttering quieter now. His closeness makes Sherlock feel extremely vulnerable but he does appreciate the reduced need to shout. “If you’re not feeling well, I won’t make you stay here. I know you didn’t want to come….” His voice trails off and Sherlock closes his eyes, wishing he could do or say the right thing just this once.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he finally asks.

Sherlock can’t see it, but John smiles. He laughs silently to himself, pondering what his friend’s thought process is. He rocks back on his heels and smiles the sort of smile that only Sherlock sees. “Yes,” he responds.

“Then you know my answer. I’ll be fine in just a moment,” Sherlock breathes, a soft smile on his own tense face.

“Alright, Sherlock. You know I’m happy to help if you need anything.” John leaves, too, and doesn’t hear Sherlock’s laughter.

His slow chuckle builds into a full-bodied laugh as he zips his trousers and steps out of the stall. “Dear Lord,” he mutters, washing his hands and splashing water on the back of his neck. “Help us both if that’s true.”


End file.
